


binary stars

by oh_my_stars_and_sky



Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Aged-Up Frisk (Undertale), Big Brother Sans (Undertale), Eventual Happy Ending, F/M, Falling In Love, Frisk (Undertale) Is a Sweetheart, Nonbinary Frisk (Undertale), POV Alternating, Protective Sans (Undertale), Rating May Change, Sans (Undertale) Needs a Hug, Sans (Undertale) Remembers Resets, Sans Deserves Happiness, Sans and Frisk are both Dealing with Trauma, Sexual Content, This Is A Love Story Damnit, Undertale Saves and Resets, Worried Sans (Undertale)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-26
Updated: 2020-07-10
Packaged: 2021-03-03 23:09:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,158
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24923638
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oh_my_stars_and_sky/pseuds/oh_my_stars_and_sky
Summary: Sans immediately knows something is different about Frisk, the second he sees them. He also knows they are going to cause him nothing but trouble. He finds he doesn't really care, because he's never felt the way he feels when he sees them before, and because against all odds, they are the kindest creature he's ever met.Frisk is desperate to free themself and their friends both from the resets they inadvertently cause and from the barrier. They find an unlikely companion in Sans, and together they try to find some way to let Frisk survive while still doing the right thing. It is all complicated by the feelings that start growing between them.
Relationships: Frisk & Sans (Undertale), Frisk/Sans (Undertale)
Comments: 11
Kudos: 37





	1. Snowdin

**Author's Note:**

> Hi guys!!! So this is a fic I started back in 2016, which I recently found and dusted off; I was almost done writing it when I got derailed back then, so I'm going to be posting it in sections as I clean it up and retool it. I recently re-found Undertale, and I found it really comforting amidst the craziness of everything going on. Hope everyone is safe and doing well!!
> 
> Enjoy!

i. Sans

The first time he saw the kid, he could smell a reckoning.

It could’ve been instinct, after years of watching watching Gaster self destruct, and subsequent years of parenting Papyrus, and years of watching the kingdom be consumed in pain and fear _over_ and _over_ in the erratic fucking timelines. Lord knows, he should have developed some sort of apocalypse alert by now, and to an extent he guessed he had, but the thing with the kid was different.

It couldn’t have been instinct, because instinct was familiar like a well worn jacket and the thing with the kid was anything but familiar. It wasn’t _bad_ so much as it was _intriguing,_ but there was a definitive tang of premonition to it, like seeing a cute little bonfire in the woods, and wanting to smile fondly at it while simultaneously being certain that bonfire would burn the whole forest down.

They were leaving the Tori’s ruins when he spotted them, bright, nervous eyes and pink cheeks. Dimly, he felt bad for Tori. She was always losing kids. All she ever did was try and protect them.

But he couldn’t focus on that- not when looking at that kid.

Something was different in the air that hung around them.

Sans gave them the old buzzer-in-the-hand trick, and they laughed in such a soft, twinkling timbre that he elected to ignore his misgivings and opted instead to tell them some bad puns. 

Lord knows, pretty much everything sucked already down here. There was no use in assigning a new person to play antagonist without even knowing them.

Besides, the kid seemed to really think he was funny. 

\-----

i. Frisk

It took Frisk three resets to realize Sans knew.

Three deaths. 

Maybe it was in how he gripped their hand when he played that buzzer trick on them over and over, how he looked at them, like he wanted to say something, like he was _pleading_ with them to say it first, like he already knew the words they said before they fell from their mouth.

They tried to say something, but found they too didn’t know what it is that should be said.

Doggo killed them.

They reset. Four deaths.

He should _hate_ them, he really should, for looping everything like this, but they don’t have any _choice_ and even though he _should_ hate them, he _really_ should, it isn’t hate that they see in his eyes.

\-----

ii. Sans

The kid played along for Papyrus. 

It’d been awhile since anyone but him and Undyne gave Pap the time of day, let alone go through his godforsaken puzzles and actually talk to him, but the kid threw themselves into it wholeheartedly, like they did everything, it seemed, nodding along and looking vaguely scared at the appropriate times, winking at him when he tilted his head at them in question when Pap couldn’t see.

He came home one day, a good few days out from the most recent reset, to find the kid sitting on his kitchen counter, enthusiastic and convincingly engrossed in what appeared to be a cooking lesson Papyrus was attempting to teach.

He stood there in the doorway to the kitchen, mostly shrouded in evening shadow, watching quietly as the kid nodded vigorously and chopped vegetables. 

For a moment he felt the empty, grim grin he defaulted to shift into a soft, happy smile.

Later that night, after Papyrus was safely asleep, he came downstairs to find the kid cleaning the kitchen, humming to themself, washing pots. He stared at them quizzically for a moment, feeling again that shift, but then the kid looked up suddenly and caught his eye and they _blushed_ for a moment before their face fell serious and they cleared their throat.

“I-um, I know you know. You know. About the whole-” They drew in their breath harshly, cutting themself off and turning back to their pots.

“I’m sorry.” They croaked, sounding so _broken_ , and it's stupid, but he can’t help himself, he can’t control himself, he couldn’t control his _body_ as he walks swiftly towards them. He stopped sharp, unsure of himself, before reaching out a tentative hand and laying it on their shoulder.

“It's-uh, it’s not your fault, kid.” They looked up at him, astounded and doubtful and so goddamn _pure_ but not a bit naive and he didn’t know what to _do_ so he retracted his hand to his jacket pocket and said, “C’mon, let’s talk,” motioning towards the living room.

They followed him quietly, not quite meeting his eyes until they sat. When they finally did look up, they took a long, deep breath and then proceeded to spill their guts.

Sans had never much been one for comfort. He didn’t even know how to deal with his own shit, let alone someone else's, but _Christ_ the kid’d been through almost as much as he had and the whole time they talk, its not themselves they’re worrying about, it's other people, it's how them fucking _dying repeatedly_ is affecting other people, and that's maybe the most heroic thing he’s ever heard, even if they do screw up the timelines.

They finished abruptly, looking back down at the floor and silence hung.

Sans didn’t know how to deal with shit, but he was good at jokes so he searched wildly for one even moderately appropriate for the situation at hand and landed on

“It don’t get easier, kid, but it’s-ah, it’s going _tibia_ okay.”

They giggled, and looked back up at him, meeting his rueful gaze, and tossed back, “I should hope so, with a _bonehead_ like you on my side.”

“Not bad, kid”, he replied, giggling himself.

They smiled, stretching up and then draping themself over their half of the couch before yawning, and replying, “I’m not a kid, you know.”

If he had eyebrows, he’d’ve raised them in skepticism.

They must’ve noticed because they rolled their eyes good naturedly and said, “I know, I know, I’m short. I’m nineteen, okay?”

It is most certainly more than okay, but why he felt so he couldn’t quite articulate yet, so he didn't say anything more on the subject. Instead, he said, “You can stay here tonight”, gesturing at the couch before conjuring a blanket and pillow from the closet in a flash of blue and tossing them to Frisk.

“Thank you,” they said, blushing again.

He just smiled and climbed the stairs.

\-----

ii. Frisk

By the time they got up the guts to tell him they know he knows, they're going on seven deaths, and the voice had taken root in the back of their head.

It told them they _don’t need to die anymore_ , that _there’s another way,_ should they only ask.

It sounded like a snake. 

They ignored it in favor of listening to Papyrus instead; he was so _animated_ and _sweet_ and they could tell that most of his fellow monsters were fed up with his childlike wonder. They couldn’t imagine why. They remembered being wide-eyed and bright-smiles and if they could keep anyone else from losing that sparkle, that awe, they sure as hell would do their best to.

And anyways, puzzles were fun, and pasta was mostly yummy when de-glittered.

That night, they didn’t hear from Sans till later, when he was calling Pap to bed, and they didn’t see him till even later, after Pap had been read a bedtime story.

They were washing dishes when he came down, and he looked at them and they looked at him and he _knew,_ they _knew_ he knew but he was _smiling_ at them and it spilled out, stilted and unceremonious but _there,_ out in the ether, out in the open,

“I-um, I know you know. You know. About the whole-”,

In, out, breathe, _say it,_

“I’m sorry.” 

and it was not quite everything but it was _enough_ because San’s hand was on their shoulder and he said “It's-uh, it’s not your fault, kid.” They didn’t know what to say, they didn’t know what to _do_ because it is so, so much more than they deserve, than they had dared to expect, and then Sans said “C’mon, let’s talk,” and pointed vaguely in the direction of the couch. Dumbstruck, they followed him, sat down quietly next to him. At his expectant expression, it all flowed out, everything they remember, everything they know, about how _painful_ it was, to know that you are trapping your friends, to know that your failures mean they don’t get to live out their lives, what it felt like to _die_ , _over and over again_ , and he _listened,_ and he _understood ,_ and when they’ve said all they could he sighed sympathetically and said,

“It don’t get easier, kid, but it’s-ah, it’s going _tibia_ okay.”

And then they were laughing, and it _was_ okay.

He offered them the couch to sleep on, and they gladly accepted, if only for one night. But one night turned to two and to three, and soon they were making breakfast for the brothers every morning, and sleeping on their couch every night.

Some days they shadowed Sans, hiding whenever anyone approached and making puns and laughing whenever they were alone.

Some days they set up puzzles with Papyrus in the snow, snowball fighting and strategizing.

Other days they kept to themselves, careful to keep out of sight, just exploring. 

They found the dump a couple weeks out from the reset; two weeks of Papyrus and Sans and ignoring the notion of breaking the barrier (selfish, _stupid)_ in favor of the notion of puzzles in the icy cold and watching bad tv and trombone serenades and it had been _wonderful_ but as they waded through the murky water strewn with old magazines and broken bits and pieces, something tugged within their chest. 

They spotted a well-preserved, sealed jigsaw puzzle on top of a nearby pile of garbage. 

Grabbing it for Papyrus, they turned to head home.

\-----

iii. Sans

The kid moved in, slept on the couch. He really oughta have kicked them out- he couldn’t afford freeloaders, but the kid brought Pap home a jigsaw puzzle and promised to help him put it together, and between the look on Pap’s face and the fact that the kid even thought to bring it, they earn their keep. Plus, the timeline stopped resetting for a while when the kid stayed with them. There was a silent agreement that they didn't talk about the resets unless the kid brought it up, but that was okay, because as it turned out there was plenty else the kid wanted to talk about, and once they started they didn’t shut up.

It subsequently turned out that he actually kinda liked it when the kid talked.

They didn't talk to everyone, or to almost anyone at all really, but they did talk to him.

When the two of them were alone they’d start up about anything, and Sans learned a lot that he didn't realize he wanted to know.

The kid liked strawberry ice cream because it reminded them of summer and the Sun.

The kid wanted to be an engineer, but they couldn't afford college, so instead they decided to go backpacking, because it meant getting away from home, disappearing, because it meant opportunity.

The kid loved to read; stories, it seemed, were another escape.

The kid didn't have anyone on the upside anymore, but they had the Sun and their books and their opportunity so it didn't matter, they were going to get out.

And at first, Sans passively listened and made puns when appropriate, and sometimes when not appropriate, but the kid was so _optimistic_ and _kind_ and uncannily _smart_ that he couldn't help but start to really listen, and smile.

One day the kid walked in on him practicing trombone in the living room, and he learned that they could play piano and saxophone.

They said it so wistfully that he couldn’t help himself, he pried a little. 

“Why the long face, kiddo?” 

They shrugged and bit their lip, smiling sadly. “It’s just been awhile since I could play, ya know? I. Well, I miss it. I used to play at night when I couldn’t sleep.” They said quietly, blushing at the last words.

“Huh.” he said, thinking. “Guess we’ll have to Handel that, won’t we, kiddo?”

The kid sighed overdramatically but their laughter betrayed them in a snort. ”George Frideric Handel was an amazing composer, and you repay him by sullying his name with _puns.”_ The conviction of their statement was ruined by giggles, and Sans quirked a would-be eyebrow.

“I guess I’ll _scale_ back my puns before they get me into _treble_ then, eh?” They weren’t even trying to pretend they weren’t laughing now, and between shallow breaths and bouts of laughter they shot back

“I didn’t mean to _harp_ on you about it. I’d be a _lyre_ if I said I didn’t like your puns.” He was actually sort of happily surprised at their proficiency in music puns, and he found himself laughing with them, honest to goodness.

When they both caught their breath, he said “So music, eh?” And they nodded shyly. These questions, this whole _getting involved_ thing was really not his speed but he found that when it came to the kid none of his usual rules applied and he figured, what the hell, in for a penny, in for a pound and continued “Do you just like to play or do you like to listen too?”

“Both.” they said quietly. They hadn’t been this withdrawn about anything in a long time, and he suspected this might be more important to them than he had initially thought. He’s gotta be careful what he says. He wanted them to _like_ him, to trust him, to want to be around him and it's been a long time since he’d cared what anyone thought of him, so he was rusty at this whole thing.

“What kinds?” He asked cautiously.

“Oh, different kinds.” they replied fondly, looking reminiscent and quietly happy. “Jazz and folk, mostly. Electronic sometimes, big band sometimes. Oldies. I played piano when I couldn’t sleep, like I said, and I played sax in high school in band, but I mostly listened to music when I read, actually. I, um, I used to like to try and match the songs up with what I was reading. I would make playlists for books.” They giggled airily to themselves. They looked so _beautiful_ like that, their kind green eyes a million miles away, serene smile playing their pink lips, hair jostled and untouched, falling half in their face and half sticking up and it was a mess but somehow it seemed _exactly right_ as they sat cross legged on his ragged old couch, in their sweater that came down to their knees, whose sleeves they had to cuff up a thousand times before their fingertips peeked through, and in that moment he couldn't think of anything but _that moment-_

“Anyway, what are we doing for dinner? I can cook,” they said abruptly, shattering whatever that was and moving to get up.

“I _relish_ the fact that you’ve _mustard_ up the effort, ‘cause there’s only so many nights in a row a guy can eat spaghetti and if you cook before Pap gets home, it might be _pasta_ -ble to avoid sounding _saucy_ when we tell him we wanna eat something other than his cooking,” he said absentmindedly as he sank into the couch they’d just gotten up from.

“Really, Sans? Four puns in one sentence? That’s a bit excessive.” They called from the kitchen, but Sans could hear them laughing as they turned on the stovetop.

He felt himself go blue in the face as he sank deeper into the old couch cushions.

\-----

iii. Frisk

Pap had been so excited about the jigsaw puzzle once they explained it to him. They had taken over a large corner of the living room floor, slowly piecing it together, evening by evening, piece by piece. It was nothing special really, an image of a toucan on a tree with an ambiguously rainforest-ey backdrop, but with each correctly placed piece Pap declared they were one step closer to vanquishing their great bird enemy.

Sometimes Sans joined them, lounging on the couch, pink slippers on his feet, occasionally delegating puzzle placement but mostly just making bad puns to annoy Papyrus.

Frisk thought this must be what _family_ felt like, not that they had any real frame of reference. Their mother had died when they were young, and they had no siblings. They were left with only a bitter, angry father and a beat up old RV. 

They learned how to take care of themselves pretty quick. 

Then, when they were ten, the RV gave out, and they went to live with their aunt, who lived in a beautiful house with a beautiful garden and baby grand piano.

But things didn't get better. Things got worse. Their aunt fought constantly with their father, and neither of them had the time of day for Frisk.

When they were sixteen, it came to light that their father had stolen hundreds of thousands of dollars from their aunt to pay for his less than savory habits, and, in some misguided attempt at nobility, instead of prosecuting Frisk’s father, their aunt simply turned them both out onto the streets. 16 and 17 were spent working every odd job they could find, and sleeping on friend’s couches and doorstoops and in cheap motels when it could be afforded.

When they turned 18, they left without a backward glance.

So they didn't really have a frame of reference, per se, for what family felt like, but when Sans laughed at their puns and Papyrus grumbled and secretly laughed along, they were pretty sure it felt something like this.

About a month into puzzling, when they had just finished border pieces, Sans caught them by the wrist on their way out of the living room after Pap had gone upstairs to get ready for bed.

“Hey,” he said, sounding slightly conflicted.

“Hey, you,” they replied, stepping closer, “What is it?”

He cleared his throat. “I-um. I just wanted to thank you. For this. He’s-not many people have that kind of patience with him.”

Frisk shook their head, blushing. “You don’t have to thank me, Sans,” they say, slipping their hand up into his. ”I like hanging out with you guys.”

He blushed back, before shaking his head and clearing his throat. “I better go read to Pap,” he said, letting go of their hand and disappearing. 

It took them another whole month to put together the toucan, and another for the tree. 

Sometimes after Pap had been read to and the dishes had been done, Sans sat with them in the living room, watching rerun TV.

Sometimes he grabbed their hand.

They always grabbed his hand back.

The rainforest backdrop proved to be the most difficult to put together. 

The vague green leaves left were the hardest bit; you could never be sure what went where. 

\----- 

iv. Sans

The walls of his room were sparse and nearly empty. There was a window across from his bed, but he hadn’t opened it in so long that it had frosted shut. The paint was chipping, as they hadn’t been painted since when they first moved in; Pap had insisted then on painting his room red and Sans’s blue, so they “wouldn’t get confused about whose was whose. So his walls were blue, lighter than his sweatshirt, just darker than robin’s egg, but beyond their color they bore no semblance of their sole inhabitant. 

The chips in the paint were quite large in places, leaving the bare sheetrock exposed underneath. 

He could fix it with magic, or even with paint.

He doesn’t.

The sole adornment of his walls was a small poster above his bed of the solar system. 

It had been Gaster’s, but it was clearly older than even he; it was frayed around the edges, and water damaged in one corner, but it was still a clear enough picture; a large glowing ball of light, the Sun, he remembers, orbited by satellites labeled ‘planets’. There was a neat arrow drawn in red ink to the third satellite out, labeled only ‘us’.

He used to want to see the sun.

He had wanted it so _bad._ He had _cried_ the first time Gaster had explained to him, in his curt, cold tone that it was “unlikely, due to a poorly negotiated conflict with those impertinent humans.”

He used to want to see the sun, but now he didn’t care.

Not about that, anyway.

The floor, in contrast with the walls, was cluttered, littered with piles of books and strewn papers; sheet music, looseleaf. His trombone case leaned against the wall. 

He knelt, humming quietly to himself as he rummaged through the pile of books closest to his bed, searching through his volumes.

The kid had said that they liked to read, that they liked stories.

Most of his books were about physics or biology- lengthy textbooks, published research, with a joke book scattered here and there.

No real stories to speak of, except that he remembers an odd little book that he’d rescued from the dump- Broken Symmetries. It was still based in physics, and mostly accurate, actually, but it was also a novel, with characters and plotlines and intrigue and _story._

He found the book wedged between a pile of bio textbooks and the wall, and once he dusted it off, it appeared to be in pretty good condition.

He plunked down on his unmade bed, setting the book down beside him. 

He sighed, hugging his knees to his chest, back against the headboard.

He didn’t know what he was doing. 

It seemed like he never knew what he was doing when it came to the kid. He wasn’t supposed to get attached to people; attachment was dangerous, and stupid, and only ended painfully. He knew that well enough.

He had gone and gotten attached.

Breaking the barrier was supposed to be the top priority; and now, when they were only _one soul_ away from going topside, he was _protecting_ the soul that could free them, even when capturing it was supposed to be his fucking _job._ Capturing it was their ticket _up there._

There was a better life up there for Pap, for himself.

Up there, there was the Sun. 

He used to want to see the Sun, but now he didn’t _care_.

Not about that, not about that at all. 

Why would he ever want to go topside, why would he even _need_ the Sun, care about the Sun when down here he had those green eyes to care about, and that _laugh-_

The more time he spent with them, the surer he was that they were actually _perfect._

The way they did everything so _sincerely_ , laughing, helping, caring.

The way they brought home that jigsaw puzzle from the dump for Pap, the way they sat with him on the floor, so _patient_ and _kind_ and taught him how to put it together, even though it took Pap way too long to really figure it out. 

The way they danced around the kitchen while he played trombone. 

He shook his head, sighing. 

This was stupid, and he was a fucking _mess_ , but he was going to give them the damn book and he was going to keep them safe.

Tomorrow, he resolved, and, lying down, he drifted off into an uneasy sleep. 

\-----

iv. Frisk

When they finished the puzzle, Sans used his magic to make it stick together like a picture. It took them just shy of four months, evening by evening, but they did it.

Papyrus wanted to invite Undyne over and have a We-Defeated-The-Puzzle party, but Sans said he thought that was a bad idea, so instead they had glittery spaghetti and ketchup and watched a Mettaton special on TV.

Before bed, they hung the puzzle up on Papyrus’s wall, so he could always be reminded of his glorious victory.

In typical fashion, Frisk went down to the kitchen to do the dishes while Sans read Papyrus a story before bed. They worked methodically, from dishes to utensils to glasses, washing and then setting them in the drying rack beside the sink.

They had barely finished the last glass when he appeared beside them, silently and without warning. They started, but then chuckled. 

“Hey,” they said, slipping themself up onto the kitchen counter directly in front of him.

“Hey, you” he returned. He looked at them intently, as if steeling himself for something, before reaching into his jacket pocket and pulling something out, shoving it in their general direction while looking anywhere but at them.

It was a book; they squealed and grabbed it from him in disbelief. Books didn’t fare well in the dump, what with all the water and garbage, so they hadn’t been able to find much human reading material down here, and while monsters had books too, they didn’t have the cultural context or frame of reference to really understand them the way they understood human books.

The book was old, and worn, but it looked really interesting judging by the blurb on the back and they actually remembered their physics teacher mentioning it in high school, and it smelled of that wonderful bookish paper and it was such a _thoughtful, kind_ thing and it was perfect and-

Sans cleared his throat, and they looked up, realizing they must have said most that out loud. His cheeks were an odd, warm sort of blue and he looked as though he was trying not to smile.

“Thank you so, so much,” they said quietly, earnestly.

“Aw, kid. It’s nothing, really,” he replied, looking down. 

He looked so _raw,_ like they could read out his life story in the expression of his eyes if they only knew the language. He seldom let his guard down at all. He had been so incredibly _kind_ to them, letting them stay here, and he was so _funny_ and _selfless_ even though they could tell he’d been through a lot that he couldn’t express, and even though they were his only real shot at breaking the barrier, he somehow found it in himself to keep them _safe_ instead of killing them. Every time they saw him, everytime he spoke to them they couldn’t help but smile.

Frisk leaned forward before they could lose their nerve, and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

The bone was cold, and smooth, as they thought it might be, but there was a peculiar sense of warmth that radiated off of him as they brushed their lips against his teeth shyly in the quiet dark of the kitchen, that same warmth curling in their stomach.

It was a brief proceeding, only a moment, really, barely more than a peck, before they pulled back. 

He looked utterly stunned for a moment, but then, as he blinked, an elated grin blossomed across his face.

They smiled back, pleased at his reaction. 

“Well, bonehead, I’m going to sleep. See ya in the morning,” they said, slipping off the counter and traipsing toward the couch. 

\-----

v. Sans

They kissed him.

He stood in the kitchen, before the empty kitchen counter, basking in the hum of the refrigerator, staring at the grimy backsplash between the counter and the cabinets.

They _kissed_ him.

He had given them the book, just like he had planned, and they had taken it, and they had started up a mile a minute about how cool it was. He was glad for that because he had been worried they’d think it was _lame_ , but he’d hoped maybe they would like it, and they _had_ and then they just _looked_ at him, and bit their lip like they do when they think, and then-

_They_ kissed _him._

He reached up a bony hand and laid it on his own cheek, feeling the warmth still collected there, that blue glow of magic and emotion.

They kissed him.

None of them were ever going to get out of here at this rate, but who cared?

He didn't care.

Down here, he had Pap, and down here, he had _them,_ and for once in his life everything didn't suck.

\-----

v. Frisk

Of course it didn’t last.

How could it? When had anything good ever lasted in their stupid, _stupid_ godforsaken life.

Never.

So they really shouldn’t have been surprised when they were frogmarched out of Snowdin by the dog patrol while Sans was at work.

Shouldn’t’ve been surprised when they were forced to their knees in a field of snow on the border with Waterfall, shouldn’t’ve been surprised when they heard Undyne’s voice behind them, congratulating Dogeressa on her skilled identification of a human.

She had never seen Undyne face to face, but Papyrus talked about her constantly, and she had seemed nice enough. She took care of Pap, at least, which was more than most people, so Frisk thought she was probably a much better person than this particular instance would suggest.

She probably just wanted to free her people.

Understandable.

To be honest, Frisk wanted to set the monsters free too; they were just trying to figure out a way to do that that didn't involve dying.

Except that lately they hadn't been. Lately they had just been _living_ , just being _happy_ , and they had almost been able to forget the _resets_ , the _barrier_ , the _pain_ . That wasn't fair of them, really. It wasn’t just their pain, it was the pain of _everyone,_ all the monsters, and _they_ were the only one that had the power to stop it.

And instead, what had they accomplished? Nothing, beyond dalliance and puns with whatever was going on between them and Sans.

So she understood Undyne’s pain, and what she was about to do. She really, really did.

Pap had wanted to introduce her and Undyne, had wanted to invite her over to dinner.

Sans had thought that was a bad idea.

They could see why now.

Undyne ran them through with her spear.

8 deaths.

They reset, standing outside of the door to the Ruins in the snow.

_It doessn’t havve to be like thisss......_ says the voice in the back of their head.

They hesitated a moment, feeling pearls of tears lay siege to their cheeks, before pushing the voice out again and trudging towards the bridge.

\-----

vi. Sans

He was manning his hotdog stand in Hotlands when the reset happened. One moment he was lazing in his chair, appreciating the humid, sticky warmth of the air and the distinct lack of business. He closed his eyes to blink and next thing he knew he was standing knee deep in snow and it was cold and crisp and smelt like pine and it took him a moment, but then he realized with a jolt and he thought he was gonna be sick.

He had gotten pretty used to the resets before the kid.

Nothing would _trigger_ them, per se, which sucked because there was no real way of predicting them, but at least-

At least it wasn’t that someone had _died._

Especially someone so fucking _kind._

He saw them walking towards the bridge.

He snuck up to ‘em, like he always did, because he didn’t know what else to do besides go through the motions.

The kid turned around when he came up behind them, and he could see their cheeks were wet with tears. Their green eyes were fearful, and confused, and _he_ wanted to cry now, but he didn’t, he _wouldn’t,_ he just stuck out his hand like usual.

The kid looked down at his hand, and then back up at him. He tried to offer them a sincere smile, the kind they always smile at him, but he suspected he failed.

They bit their lip.

And then their arms were around his neck, and their head was tucked under his, flush against his chest, and they were _apologizing,_ over and over, _I’m So Sorry, I’m So Sorry Sans,_ and he pulled them close and wrapped his arms around them and let them sob into his jacket.

When they calmed down a little, he took their hand and they disappeared together in a flash of blue.

\-----

vi. Frisk

They appeared in a sad room Frisk didn’t recognize; The walls were plain and their paint was chipped, and the sole window was frosted over so bad Frisk couldn’t see out of it.

They let go of his hand, collecting themself, sniffling and looking down.

In the corner stood a trombone case, and across the floor there was music and writing, scattered. Books were haphazardly piled in disarray, and a bed stood in the corner, above which was a poster the solar system.

This was Sans’s room, they realized slowly.

It was nothing like they’d imagined it would be, with the magic that seeped out from underneath the door.

It was stark, and melancholic.

They’d never been in here before. To their knowledge, no one but he came in or out. 

He must really be worried, to bring them here. He must really _care_.

“Thank you,” they said, their voice small, unable to force themself to meet his eyes. They didn’t _deserve_ this, this _compassion_ . 

“What happened, kid?” he asked in a gruff tone. They looked up at him, but he was staring intently at the frosted window.

“One of the dogs figured us out. They-uh, they brought me to Undyne, and she. Well.” they said, looking down again. 

Sans cursed, kicking a stack of books on the floor. ”That _fucking_ bitch, I’ll _kill_ her, what gives her the _right,_ she can’t just-it’s not-you’re....” Sans trailed off, turning from them and sitting on the floor, back up against the wall, head in his hands.

There was silence, marked only by Frisk’s sharp inhales, still almost pants, still shaky, and Sans's muffled keening as he sat on the floor.

“She’s right, though.” Frisk heard themself say, breaking the quiet.

“What?!” Sans half shouted, head jerking up to meet their eyes, hands dropping to his sides.

He was crying. 

His tears were almost navy in color, and they were spilling out of his eye sockets, leaking down his cheekbones, but not staining them, just running down, wetting his sweatshirt at its collar. He looked incredulously up at them, as if he couldn’t believe the words that just fell from their lips, even though of all people it's _he_ that should understand. 

“I’m the only one that can free them. They _deserve_ to be free. It doesn’t matter what happens to me, don’t you see?” they said weakly, attempting a smile. His expression turned angry, almost undone, and his pupils receded until Frisk couldn’t see them anymore.

“Don’t I see? Don’t I _see?”_ he snarled, jumping to his feet and crossing to them with precise, quick strides, until they were mere inches away. “It’s not your _responsibility_ to free everyone, Frisk, it’s not your _job,_ they don’t get to _force_ that on you, you have just as much of a right as the rest of us to _live,_ they can’t just _kill you,_ they don’t get to _kill you.”_ His fury was palpable, but they could tell it wasn’t at them, but at the notion that they might get hurt, which only served to frustrate them more, because their safety _didn’t matter_.

“Maybe not, but I have to get to the barrier. I have to try and break it, no matter what that means I have to do. If I get there, and there’s no other way, they have every right to kill me. Hell, I’d do it myself.” Frisk countered, agitated that he didn’t understand.”I’m the only chance any of us has at getting out of here.”

“Oh, so now you want to get out of here, huh? Is that what this is about? Are we not good enough for you or something?” he hollered, his face flushing blue like it had in the kitchen, but he wasn’t smiling like he had been then. 

“That’s not what this is about,” Frisk retorted hotly. He just didn’t _get it_.

“ _Bullshit_ , that’s not what this is about,” he yelled, anger mixing with something more potent in the planes of his face. “Is this not enough for you? Is that it? Huh? Are we not up to you _human standards_ or something? You- _you_ stayed here, and we _let_ you, we took _care_ of you, now you just wanna up and leave because what? We’re not good enough for you? Don’t you like it here? Don’t you want this? Don’t you- don’t you want _me_??” Ire and insecurity sullied his expression, marring the timbre of his voice as he shouted.

“ _Of course_ I want you, dumbass, why the fuck do you think I’m doing this? For fun?” they snapped back, and then his hands were tangled in their hair and their hands had seized his hips and they were kissing again, messy and bruising and hard. It wasn’t tidy and clean cut and sweet like it had been in the kitchen, but it was _ecstasy,_ and it was _just right,_ the soft warmth of their pink lips caught between his cold, hard, sharp teeth, tiny droplets of their blood spilling out and staining the white smooth bone as they pulled him impossibly closer, as though they never wanted to let go _._

Eventually, as their lungs began to complain, and they broke for air. Burying their face in his sweatshirt, seeking out his odd almost warmth, they sighed, breathing in his scent.

“You know,” he murmured, pulling them tighter against him, closer, ”You could stay here tonight.”

They hummed in response, moving to hold him closer themself, digging their hands into his shoulder blades underneath his sweatshirt, swaying slightly.

“We could build a pillow fort. Or, heh, or you could just go ahead and jump my _bones.”_

He felt them laugh against his ribcage. “Only tonight.” They mumbled into his sweatshirt. “Then I gotta break a magic barrier.”

“You ain’t gonna go at it alone, kid.” he said, his voice gravelly still. They unbury their head from his sweatshirt without breaking their embrace, looking up at him quizzically and pleased.

“You” they say “are _fibula-s_ skeleton.”

He laughed, loud and relieved and free, and shot back “I gotta _patella_ ya, kid, I find you really _humerus_.” They snorted, and he waggled what would be his eyebrows at them, and they both erupted into fits of giggles. He picked them up by their waist, and they wound their arms around his neck, and nothing was so scary or painful anymore.

Crossing to the unmade bed, he laid them down gently, laying himself down next to them, nervous and hesitant. 

_Who knows when the next time you’ll get to do this will be_ , he thought, allaying his fears in favor of the hope they were offering him. He leaned forward slowly, giving them every opportunity to pull away. When they were millimeters apart, he shut his eyes and closed the distance between them, kissing them lovingly, softly, with prudence bridling passion. He gripped their hips as the kiss deepened, feeling his soul grow brighter and brighter as they moaned softly into his mouth. 

He broke away, panting slightly, pressing the cold bone of his forehead against the crown of their head. 

“Have you ever done this before?” they asked, voice gravely and raw.

“I’m not sure anyone’s done _this_ before, kid,” he responded, pulling back and rolling gently on top of them, straddling them carefully. 

They reached up and caressed his face softly, with such adoration he thought he might cry again. 

\-----

vii. Sans

Sans lay on his back, light struggling to filter through the window, painting patterns on the foot of the bed. Staying as stock still as he could, he relished the warmth emanating from beside him, where Frisk lay, curled up, face buried in his shoulder, feeling their lungs gently expanding and contracting, their heart gently beating.

He wanted to _memorize_ this moment, wanted to live in it for the rest of his life.

It was stupid of him. It really was. Attachment like this never ended well. It was precarious and dangerous and he damn well knew enough to know that this was going nowhere but downhill. It was irresponsible of him, really, with Pap to take care of and the resetting timelines and the barrier, to get so caught up, so completely _consumed_ by someone.

He felt Frisk shudder slightly against him, and nuzzle their way further into his ribs.

It was _stupid_ . _Stupid_ and _dangerous_ and _irresponsible_.

And yet, how could he _not_ care? How, when they looked at him with such _wonder_ and _hope_ in their eyes, when they laughed with such genuine _fervor_ at his jokes, when they took his hand and told him they were going to keep him safe, that he _deserved_ to be kept safe, that he deserved to be _loved,_ how could he not care?

He smiled to himself, somehow both forlorn and ecstatic. 

This was not going to end well. This was going to be a disaster.

It didn’t matter; he didn’t care.

_He_ would keep _them_ safe, he would hold them and help them and he _would_ find a way to break the barrier without hurting them. There had to be another way. 

There had to be. And if there wasn’t, well-

He had a poster of the sun in his bedroom; he didn’t need to see it in person. 

What he did need was _them,_ flesh and blood and belligerence and puns and baggage and all, in all their messy glory.

Attachment was stupid, but _fuck_ was he attached.

He thought guiltily of Pap. He couldn’t very well leave him alone- ‘pyrus wouldn’t last a second without someone looking out for him. But on the flipside, Frisk _needed_ him _(he needed Frisk),_ but he and Frisk were two out of the three people willing to take care of Pap, the last one being-

Before he lost his nerve, he quietly, carefully disentangled himself from the beautiful sleeping form beside him, murmuring that he’d be back, and slipped on his pink slippers. Setting his jaw, he purposefully flashed out of his bedroom, still in his boxers.

Undyne nearly spat out her coffee when he spontaneously appeared on her kitchen table.

He knew she’d be awake- she took her job seriously. He steeled himself, knowing that for this to work he’d have to get it right the first time, and it _had_ to work.

“Undyne, I gotta favor to ask ya.” he said, voice gruff from sleep still, but authoritative enough, fighting to maintain his composure through his nerves.

“The fuck are you doin here? It’s four in the morning.” Undyne intoned, getting up to move to the counter and pour what appeared to be an energy drink into her coffee. 

Sans nodded; the less he said, the less she had to scrutinize and question, the less of a chance he’d be found out, but he had to play along a little if he wanted her to actually do as he asked. 

“Knew you’d be up,” he said with a wink. She laughed wryly, pulling her frazzled hair up into a messy knot before sitting back down at the table, full mug in hand.

“Only one soul left, Sans. Gotta be vigilant. Gotta get the _fuck_ out. I got plans, man! Imma get a girlfriend, imma be the best warrior there ever was; gonna learn how to make swords, Alphys said that’s a big thing up there, she learned it in an anime. _Giant_ swords, not like the shit we got down here, man.”

Sans hummed in agreement, hoping she didn’t notice him tense up at her mention of souls and vigilance because he couldn’t afford to start feeling guilty now. He rocked onto the haunches of his feet, still standing on the table.

“So” she said, drumming her fingers on the table, “what can I do ya for?”

He cleared his throat. This was it. “You gotta watch Pap for me. I-uh, I got a thing I gotta take care of, and it's too dangerous for him, but I’ll be gone for a while, and I need someone that i know will take care of him, and-”

“Say no more,” she said, chuckling again, “Wonderboy is welcome to stay with me. Heh, I’ll be the best fucking babysitter ever, I promise. He’s a good kid.”

Sans nodded, closing his eyes, smiling, relief flooding his senses. So long as he knew Pap was safe, Frisk could be his priority. 

Frisk and he could. _Well._

“You’re gonna get us out of here, aren’t you?” Undyne said, interrupting his train of thought, and he forced himself to open one eye and cock his head, guilt starting to weigh on his shoulders.

“Don’t do me like that, I know you well enough to know when you’ve got a plan. You’re on the trail of a human, aren’t you?” He felt bad, he felt _really bad_ now, but there was no turning back now, so he said

“It’s possible,” as impartially as he could manage.

Undyne narrowed her eyes and grinned, nodding her head. “I promise I’ll keep him safe while you’re gone.”

“Thank you,” he managed, too full of relief and excitement and awkward guilt that he couldn't explain to her to say any more.

“You’re welcome. Oh, and-heh, before you go, if in your travels, you happened to have a moment or something, would you mind just, uh, checking up on Alphys for me?” Undyne blushed and bit her lip. Sans nodded. She took a long sip of her caffeine water before adding, “Thank you.”

Sans nodded again before disappearing in another flash of blue.

\------------------------------------------------------------------------

vii. Frisk

When Frisk woke up, Sans was hovering nervously near, watching them. 

He had his hoodie and shorts on, with sneakers in place of his usual slippers, and though his cheeks were glowing a pale, happy sort of blue his eyes were unreadable. They bit their lip, sitting up slowly amidst the bedsheets, combing their fingers through their bedheaded hair, blushing as they met his watchful gaze. Mournfully, they remembered suddenly the job before them, that they had to _leave_ this beautiful, beautiful bed, and they moved to disentangle themself from the sheets, without noticing Sans disappearing in a quiet flash of blue.

He reappeared a breath later much closer, pinning their hands down to the mattress, framing their body with his own. He studied them, eyes intense and unreadable, his cold, clothed thighs straddling their own, bare warm ones. Leaning down, he kissed them lightly, pressing his teeth gently against their pink lips. Against their better judgement, they allowed themselves the indulgence he was offering, leaning up, into the kiss, which soon became less chaste, and they could _almost_ forget they had to leave, _almost_ pretend they could just stay here. 

“Sans” they sighed against his mouth, lament now tinged with mirth and joy.

He pulled back, smirking, and tilted his head expectantly, looking down at them, letting go of one of their hands to lazily trace their collarbone.

“You know I can’t stay,” said Frisk, pouting.

“I know” he replied, getting up suddenly, “But we can’t leave yet. I have to go find Papyrus and drop him off with Undyne; then we’ll get going.” He gave them a half smile and a wink and turned on his heel, striding to the door.

It took Frisk a moment to process what he had said in their morning foggy brain, but then it clicked and they felt themselves grin, wide and unruly, and they jumped out of bed, nearly tripping on the sheets, and ran to follow him.

Throwing open the door which he had closed behind him, they darted into the hall, stopping as they saw him at the foot of the stairs, kneeling by a chair, finishing packing what looked like a bag for Papyrus, and he looked _nervous_ and _happy_.

Leaning over the railing, they called down “ _We_?”, biting their lip, hopeful and still grinning.

He looked up at them from his spot on the floor, smiling as he saw they were smiling.

“We.” he echoed, softly, almost as though it should be obvious. “We.” he looked down at the floor, chuckling slightly.

They giggled, his bashfulness somehow elevating their own giddiness.

“Go get dressed. I’ll be back.” he said, winking at them as he got up and picked up the bag.

They looked down at themselves, realizing they hadn’t bothered to put on any more clothes than the underwear and socks they had slept in, which only exacerbated their giggles.

They sauntered back to his bedroom, humming to themselves as they heard the door open and close downstairs.


	2. waterfall

viii. Sans

They walked in companionable silence, the occasional murmured pun or encouragement, until they reached the path leading out of Snowdin. It was rather beautiful, actually, in the late afternoon light, a snaking, solitary path, flanked by uninterrupted fields of snow. It looked like it could be some kind of painting, and he was about to say so, but as he turned his eyes to his companion the words died in his throat.

They had stopped walking several paces behind him.

Quiet tears marred their face, and they had dug their teeth so hard into their bottom lip that blood had begun to pool slightly at their lip and leak down their chin. Their eyes were wide, panicked, and trained,  _ fixed  _ on one point, some twenty feet ahead in the midst of the snow to their left. By their side their hands were balled into angry little fists, barely peeking out of their sweater sleeves, and their shoulders were stiffened and squared. 

Slowly it clicked, the  _ field,  _ the _ reset.  _ He followed their gaze to the spot.

The snow still looked pristine and white, but now he couldn’t help but see it sullied with blood, couldn’t help but see it cradling a small body in a blue and pink sweater.

He gave himself a shake, and turned back to Frisk. 

He could  _ kill  _ Undyne for putting that expression on their face. 

Awkwardly he ambled back to them, standing by their side in silence for a few moments. They began to collect themself, looking down and wiping their tears with their sweater.

They hadn’t noticed the blood.

He reached over and cleaned it off with his fingertips.

They looked up at him in surprise. In response, he offered his newly bloodied fingers. They sighed and looked down, in something like embarrassment, which was  _ not  _ what he had intended.

“Hey,” he said, doing his best to put all the emotion he couldn’t express into that word.

They met his eyes again, and he smiled, not his usual grin, but a smaller expression, gentler, shyer. He offered them his hand again, this time towards their own hand. Tentatively, they took it, and returned his smile. They started again to walk, this time with their eyes staring defiantly ahead. 

And they walked.

“Hey kid,” he said, after a while, squeezing their hand.

“Yeah?” they replied, looking over at him.

“What did the big angle say to the smaller angle?” 

They rolled their eyes, snorting already, before replying “What?” with feigned exacerbation. 

“You’re pretty  _ acute.”  _ he answered, pleased with himself. They snickered. 

“You’re very  _ punny _ ,” they said, voice tinged with mirth.

“Really? _Punny?_ _That’s_ what you go with? _So cliche,_ Frisk.” He replied in mock condescension.

“Shut up, I didn’t have time to think.”

“Aw, don’t worry kid, I thought it was sweet.” They snorted again, blushing now.

It was getting dark, and late, but they were nearly to Waterfall. If they could get to his sentry station, they could sleep in relative peace. He was thanking his lucky stars no one had attacked them yet- he was kinda intimidating, so he guessed that probably had something to do with it- but he was worried the kid would be stubborn, and get themself killed again, and-

He was worried.

“Not much farther.” He intoned, noticing the slowing of their pace.

“Can’t you just teleport us there?” they asked, quirking an eyebrow at him.

“No can do, sweetheart. Doesn’t really work like that. I can go short distances pretty often if I pace myself, but longer distances are a non starter, mostly. I mean, once in a while I can manage a slightly longer trajectory, but not always, and they’re really draining,” he explained apologetically.

They yawned, nodding. “Gotcha. Makes sense. I’m fine.”

He ended up carrying them half of the rest of the way, after their steps became slow and haphazard and they were too tired to protest.

Their warmth felt nice, all bundled up in his arms.

\------

viii. Frisk

They woke up alone again. 

They’re curled up on the rough dirt floor of the sentry station, wrapped in the familiar soft weight of San’s sweatshirt. They lay still for a moment, breathing in his scent, heavy in the fabric, before slowly sitting up, keeping it wrapped around their shoulders. Next to them they found a quick note, written on the back of a ketchup label- 

_ Out scouting. Be back soon, you lazy bones. ;) -Sans  _

Smiling to themselves, they nestled under the counter of the sentry station, sitting cross legged so their back was up against the front wall. No one could see them there, which was good, because they didn’t want to risk getting caught or killed.

Sans was so sweet, they thought to themself.

_ Bet you wisssh he hadn’t leffft yooou _ said a voice in their head that they were too groggy to recognize as not their own.  _ Bet you wissh hee wasss heere. _

“I suppose,” they said aloud.

Their head began to ache behind their eyes, bothered even by the soft blue light of the echo flowers. They scrunched up their nose in irritation, burrowing deeper into Sans’s sweatshirt, closing their eyes. 

Everything went white, and everything went quiet.

It wasn’t a good quiet, not a calm, warm peace. It felt jagged, foreboding,  _ piercing _ , like having your ears cut clean off and feeling the thick, warm blood ooze down the sides of your own face without being able to hear your own screams.

They whimpered, and tried to shut their eyes further, but suddenly they were forced open.

Everything was wrong. 

They were still in the sentry station, but it was unrecognizable. Everything was colored in dark blacks and greys. The walls of the sentry station appeared to be bloodstained and tattered. 

In contrast with the darkness cloaking their surroundings was the figure now standing across from them.

It appeared to be a young girl. She was clad in a sickly green sweater with mustard yellow stripes, stained with blood across the chest. Her denim shorts were ripped and torn, and similarly stained. She stared with blood red eyes too wide, a thin lipped smile too broad, cheeks too pink. Her eyes bored into them physically, painfully. 

Abruptly, she blinked, her eyes losing their intensity but not their hue, giggling almost mechanically, and sat down cross legged on the floor across from Frisk

“ _ Bout time you agreed to see me.”  _ she said, her voice sturdier than that in Frisk’s head, but definitely the same.

“Get away,” Frisk spat, curling further into the sweatshirt.

“ _ Now, now, honey, don’t get to judging before you get to know me. I know my world is pretty bleak, and my face is pretty freaky, but I promise I’m only here to help.”  _ the girl articulates, leaning towards Frisk and smiling, less menacing and more sincere.

“How can you possibly help? How are you even here? You only ever show up at the resets” Frisk intones, not retreating further into the sweatshirt but not relaxing either.

“ _ That’s just because that’s when you're the least corporeal, so it's easier to communicate with ya. But bonehead’s been taking you in between space and time with his magic, which puts you close enough to talk to. And once you responded to me, you gave me consent to, shall we say, take you on a brief commercial break from reality with me”  _ Frisk bristled at the girl’s attitude towards Sans, but she said nothing _.” As for helpful, that depends on what you ask of me. Here, I’ll give you a freebie- you don’t have to go all the way back to the start every time you die. _ ” said the girl cavalierly. 

“What?” Frisk half shouted, head shooting up from where she had been hidin in the sweatshirt.

“ _ Don’t you know about save points, silly? Here, watch,”  _ said the girl, cupping her hands and closing her eyes tightly. “ _ You just put your hands like this and think about saving, and then you say ‘I am filled with determination’.  _ ” suddenly, in the girl’s hands there was a small, floating yellow star. Frisk was stunned.

“ _ I won’t use this one, _ ” said the girl, un-cupping her hands. The star disappeared. At Frisk’s confused look, she explained “  _ You gotta stick it somewhere if you want it to stay. Go ahead, try” _

Frisk took a deep breath, and cupped their hands, shutting their eyes tightly, thinking about saving. “I am filled with determination.” they said through gritted teeth. “I,” they said louder, clearer, “am filled with determination.”

Nothing happened.

“ _ It takes practice. It’s okay if you don’t get it at first _ ” she sympathized. Frisk sat back against the wall, burrowing back into the sweatshirt.

“ _ You really care about him, don’t you? _ ” the girl said, suddenly more serious, crawling towards Frisk “ _ I can help you protect him, you know, you only have to ask, you only have to give me control...” _

And then everything went black, and the voice was gone, replaced with that of a different timbre.

“Kid?!  _ K _ id? Sweetheart, you gotta be kidding me.” They forced their eyes open to find themself back in the normal sentry station, surrounded by chipper wood and sweet blues and purples, looking up into Sans’s distraught face.

“Frisk!” he cried, grabbing them by the shoulders and pulling them roughly against his chest, holding her tightly. “I- oh god, kid, you can’t do that.”

“Do what?” Frisk mumbled, face pressed into his shirt, wrapping their arms around his waist.

“You were  _ gone,  _ kid.” He said, voice full of horror. “No pulse, no nothin, and there was no reset, I didn’t know what was happening and I- I.” he broke off, and they held him, a million words they wanted to say bottlenecking in their throat. 

\------

ix. Sans

They don’t talk as much after he finds them lying, breathless and blue and cold, on the floor of the sentry station.

There’s too much to talk about. 

He remembers the panic rising in his chest, seeing them lying there yet knowing that they weren’t there at all.

That’s when he really knew he was done for. He couldn’t go through that again, not with them. 

He  _ couldn’t. _

But the farther their feet carried them from Snowdin, the more he questioned his choice. Sure,  _ maybe  _ Pap was safe, but maybe he was dead, and how could he know, really?

He couldn’t. 

All he could do now was walk beside them in silence, watch as they looked down in fear and shame, listen as they muttered under their breath. “I am filled with determination. I am filled with determination.”

The word determination made him bristle. It reminded him of Gaster. (Not that he needed reminding; when he closed his eyes he was painted there, looming, dissatisfied)

He didn’t ever want to be reminded of Gaster, but especially not by someone like them, so  _ pure _ and  _ kind _ and  _ caring _ .

The word determination felt like sickly green puss from their lips.

“I am filled with determination.”

He couldn’t tell them to stop- it was pretty clear those words and he were the only things keeping them going, somehow.

He could, however, keep them safe.

That was about all he could do. No one dared attack anyone standing next to him, which was a blessing because he didn’t think he could actually handle fighting.

“I am filled with determination.”

They stop to sleep in his sentry stations, or else in secluded rooms he knew.

They started getting frustrated with the words after a week or so.

He hoped they’d stop saying them. 

He lay awake as they slept, unwilling to dream. He only ever dreamed of Gaster, of the whirring machines and of Papyrus crying.

He lived through it, but somehow the dreams are more terrifying. 

Especially now, when Papyrus isn’t just down the hall, when he can’t just go peek in and make sure he’s really there, safe.

The kid noticed.

It's like them to notice, so he’s not sure why he’s surprised when they take his hand one morning and murmur “I’m sorry.”

He only knows that he doesn’t want them to be sorry, it’s not their  _ fault,  _ but instead of saying so he stops, and pulls them closer, slotting their head under his own and he  _ holds  _ them, as though they were something fragile, something precious.

He doesn’t say anything, but they understand.

It’s like them to understand.

They unearth their head from its berth in his sweatshirt and kiss him softly, deliberately on the teeth.

They don’t talk. There’s too much to talk about. But sometimes they hum, and he doesn’t know if he wants to scream or sing along.

\------

ix. Frisk

They give up on the save point after about a week.

It was probably a trick, some kind of wild goose chase to distract them. They would have none of that.

It also appeared to bother Sans. At first, they didn’t see it, being wrapped up in the idea of being able to actually  _ progress,  _ but slowly they started to feel him flinch after every ‘ _ determination _ ’, somewhere in between a sneeze and a recoil.

For a while, they only whispered it when they were sure he couldn’t hear, but it wasn’t long until they gave up entirely.

There were more important things at hand, like figuring out how to ease San’s mind as he lay beside them, stiff and painfully awake at night.

He thought they didn’t know about his insomnia, they were sure, because he always pretended to have slept well.

That wouldn’t do. If there was one thing they had learned, it was that communication was crucial to getting anywhere, especially when it had to do with feelings.

So one night, as they lay on the ground, they rolled over to face him as he pretended to sleep. 

“Hey” they whispered. He kept his eyes closed, but his face twisted slightly at their words.

“Hey, you” He answered, voice gravelly with quiet and hesitance.

“You know I love you, right?” they said quietly, propping themselves up on their elbow and laying a hand on his ribcage.

He opened one eye to look at them, his expression unreadable.

“I...I know this is hard. I can’t tell you how. How grateful I am. How amazed I am. You don’t deserve this. You deserve to be safe, and happy, and I can’t give that to you right now. But I can tell you that I love you.” They rambled.

He closed his eye again, lifting a hand to cover their own where it lay on his chest.

“I promise it’s going to be okay,” they finished, and he squeezed their hand, pulling them down over on top of him. They giggled and snuggled happily into his willing arms.

He let himself smile.

\------

x. Sans

They stayed in Waterfall longer than they had to. 

Longer, probably, than they should’ve. 

He told the kid when they asked it's so they had more time to plan what to do, in the end, and they graciously accepted his excuse and kissed him lightly, sweetly, instead of asking more questions.

He didn’t know why he was stalling.

They woke up sometimes at night and they wanted to know what was wrong.

He didn’t have an answer for that, not one he could say out loud, so little by little,  _ carefully,  _ he started to wander at night again, like he used to before he came back to find their skin as blue as his sweatshirt.

At first he just walked circles, but then he started following paths.

He found the dump after a few nights, and immediately he felt at home.

There were no expectations there, nothing but quiet and still and dirty.

He curled up in the muddy water, amid the garbage. 

He hadn’t been away from Papyrus for this long since they were very, very young.

_ They sat on top of the refrigerator, in a sleek black jar. He wasn't allowed to touch them. He knew that, Daddy said it every time he looked up longingly to where they sat.  _

_ “‘Those aren’t for you.“ _

_ He had only wanted  _ one.  _ That wasn’t much to ask, was it? Daddy wouldn’t miss one. _

_ So he left Papyrus in his playpen, and half crawled up onto the counter, up onto the breadbox so he could reach the jar. _

_ The cookies were sticky with frosting, and the tacky, syrupy feeling felt happy in his palm.  _

_ He snuck to the closet, and ate it there, without the forethought to savour or share it. _

_ It was later, much later, bedtime later, when his father realized one was missing. _

_ Only it wasn’t he that got the blame. It was his kid brother. _

_ “Papyrus. Come here.” His father’s curt voice had floated flat through the door to their room. _

_ Pap had gone without hesitance, buoyant and enthusiastic as always. _

_ “Did you take something that didn’t belong to you, Papyrus?” _

_ “No. I would never do that, Daddy.” Papyrus replied, so concerned and sweet. _

_ “Liar.” _

_ Sans didn’t see what happened next; his bed did not face the door. But he heard it crystal clear, every blow, every cry, every appeal of innocence. _

_ He never left Pap again. He could not always keep them out of trouble.  _

_ But he would always be there to take the blame.  _

He could hear it, feel it, every blow he’d ever taken at the hand of his father, every blow he’d had to watch his father administer on to his brother.

_ “I...I didn’t do anything, Sans!” Pap had sniffled, standing alone in the doorway.  _

_ Their father had retired to bed. _

_ “I. I know, Pap. It’s okay.” Sans had said, not knowing anything else by way of comfort but lying. _

_ Pap looked unbelievably small. _

_ “Will you tuck me in, Sans?” he asked, voice still quivering. _

_ “Of course, “ said Sans  _

Pap could be anywhere.  _ Anywhere. _

\-----

x. Frisk

At first, the echo flowers bothered them. It felt invasive, listening to someone’s inner thoughts like that, but after a while it became solace to hear their soft whispers, washing in the background, hopes and wishes and secrets. 

They started to listen to them, pick up threads of conversation, story arcs, runaway children, fearful mothers, the lonely, the misunderstood. 

They found Lover’s Crook after they’d been ambling through Waterfall for a good month. It’s a secluded corner. The path leading to it is slightly hidden by conveniently placed bushes. It is absolutely covered in echos; the walls, the ceiling, the floor. Next to each is a carved heart, and in each carved heart are two sets of initials. Some are reused, with old initials written over. There are a few spots where an echo has been forcibly ripped out of the wall, leaving a barren spot that for vines to cover, but even there new echo buds are starting to form.

It made them smile.

They chose one far over to the left, next to one such blank spot.

There was no heart carved next to this one, and it was slightly smaller than the others.

New.

They knelt down next to it, closed their eyes and quietly they sing an old song;

_ Tangerines are hanging heavy, glowing marigolden hues  _

_ Teasing a half-pale moon _

_ And I feel a pull to the blue-velvet dark and stars.  _

_ Pink Magnolia, blushing and coy  _

_ Savors the sun while she shines _

_ You've got yours and I've got mine _

_ Together we glide through the blue-velvet dark and stars _

_ All it takes is a little faith, and a lot of heart _

_ Back and forth we ply these oars _

_ They move in time and get entwined  _

_ Green with joy then gray with sorrow _

_ Ripened fruit that falls tomorrow  _

_ Filling us with brilliance _

_ Branches are bare with a pulse underneath  _

_ Flowering slowly inside _

_ Your hands are warm and my body is wide  _

_ To hold all the promise of blue-velvet dark and stars _

_ All it takes is a little faith and a lot of heart _

_ Sweetheart _

Satisfied, they pick up a sharp rock and carve, with care, into the wall, a heart, and in it, two names.

He’d find it later. They’d make sure.

\-----

xi. Sans

The kid was too good to him.

He couldn’t repay them what they deserved, couldn’t return the love they so freely gave him, couldn’t even explain to them why he couldn’t.

The kid could tell when he needed them to be there, to grab his hand or wrap their arms around his neck, sometimes when even he had been too muddled to realize that he needed it.

They could tell when he needed them to not, when everything was too sharp and heavy and he needed silence and alone, and quietly they let him go.

They never asked why they were not moving ahead faster.

He knew they knew they should be long gone by now, but he knew they knew he-

He couldn’t.

They granted him the mercy of not bringing it up.

He thought they were probably relieved as well. What they were trying to do was two parts crazy and a third part terrifying, and it was only compounded by the tugging and warmth in his chest when they leaned up on their toes to kiss him gently. 

One night as he slipped away from the sentry station, bound for the quiet of the garbage dump, they grabbed him by the wrist, stopping him.

Without words, they led him down the darkened paths, eventually coming to an undergrowth.

Silently, they moved aside some bushes, pulling him through into a corner whose walls were crowded by glowing echo flowers, and marred with carved hearts and names.

Lover’s Crook.

Tilting their head and smiling, they left him there, retreating quickly back into the dark.

  
He swallowed, kneeling down beside a flower that caught his eye. His name was carved next to it, along with Frisk’s, in a heart. The carving looked fresh, and the flower small.

New.

Softly, as he pressed his ear against it, it began to sing, in a quiet voice all too familiar.

Too quickly it was over, the words carefully chosen and somehow still negligible in comparison to the  _ feeling  _ with which they were sung. He pressed his ear to it again, aggressively, begging for the song to reply.

He felt tears pool in his eye sockets, and a joyful laughter played his mouth as he felt himself grin, wider than he had in a long while.

He sat back on his haunches, giggling and smiling still, trying to think of something to reply with.

Biting his lip, he settled on a pun and leaned forward.

“Hey, kid,” he said quietly, voice slightly muffled. “What did the dolphin say to his girlfriend? You, uh, you give me porpoise.” 

Leaning back, but close enough to trigger the flower, he heard it repeat him, and smiled.

He’d found the piano a few days after they had led him to Lover’s Crook. It wasn’t really a piano so much as it was a somewhat recognizable head of wood and fake ivory and strings.

It took him all of two minutes to get it to some semblance of an instrument, just a snap and some concentration, really. 

It took him about an hour to get it tuned and playable, but if he was being honest it only took him that long because he was lazy about it.

It took him two months to actually bring Frisk to it.

He wasn’t sure why- he knew they’d like it, that it would make them happy, and _ hell _ , did they deserve to be happy, but every night he carefully extricated himself from their arms.

Every night he walked the path to the dump alone.

It felt too  _ personal _ \- he didn’t know jackshit about their life before the Underground, didn’t know why they like piano or what memories it would well up, and while he knew they would like the piano, he didn’t know if they’d want to get it from him.

It was, after all,  _ personal,  _ and he didn’t exactly know where they stood.

It was complicated. 

The echo flowers made it easier- they could talk about it without really talking about it, without having to face it.

The piano was the opposite. 

It was stark, and blatant, and undeniable. 

It was  _ I care about you _ , and  _ I remember the things you tell me _ , and  _ I want you to be happy _ , and  _ I want the thing that makes you happy to be me _ .

The thought made him tremble, but it also made him smile.

On the night he finally got up his nerve, he sat on his haunches on the floor next to their sleeping body for at least an hour before shaking them awake. He watched their chest rise and fall, so peaceful and calm, watched their pink mouth, half open and almost smiling, even in sleep.

He felt so  _ broken  _ in comparison.

Reaching out tentatively, he woke them up.

\------

xi. Frisk

He still disappeared at night sometimes, but there were other nights when he would lay down beside them and pull them close to his chest, bury his face in the hair, and stay.

They were infrequent, but they were enough for now. 

Other nights he shook them awake, and gestured, blushing, to the path down to Lover’s Crook, and they would jog down to the flowers. He always left them a new pun or joke, and in return they left him a song.

_ “Hey kid, what did the salad say to his girlfriend?” _

**_“You are the sunshine of my life;”_ **

_ “Olive you- heh, pretty funny, right? _

**_“That’s why I’ll always be around.”_ **

_ “Olive you, kid.” _

It was nice.

They were wasting time, but it was nice.

One night, as they woke up to him hovering over them, expression unreadable. Forcing their eyes as open as possible, they propped themselves up on their elbow.

“Hey,” they whispered. In lieu of an answer, he offered his hand. They took it, pulling themselves to their feet.

“Got somethin for ya,” he said, looking down, his voice deep and resonant and quiet. They squeezed his hand, cocking their head in silent question. In response, he pulled them through the door, onto a path that was vaguely familiar, pulling them along at a quick pace.

They arrived at a swampy patch of dirty water, littered with garbage, and it clicked.

The dump.

Stopping abruptly at the edge, he gestured vaguely behind a near pile. Tentatively, they approached it with light steps sloshing the water. Rounding the corner, it became clear why he had brought them there.

It was a piano.

The wood was splintered in places, and the keys were chipped, but it was a piano.

Laughing, crying, they ran the rest of the way to it, fingers itching to play.

Slowly, their old lessons came back to them. Dissonance became harmony beneath their fingertips, and an old song began to disrupt the air.

It was like being given a little piece of happy back, a little bit of what could’ve been a home. 

After what might’ve been an hour, or a day, or ten minutes, they felt him press up against them, chest to back, and gently he put his hands on theirs, letting them guide him into the melody. Slowly, the piano began to faintly glow blue, until the keys were pressing themselves down in mirror motion with their hands, the song playing itself.

Softly, he stilled their hands, letting the music resonate on its own for a moment before turning them, so they were chest to chest, their small fingers now intertwined with his. 

“Hey” he said.

“Hey, you”, they replied.

They squeezed his hands before letting go, in favor of resting them on his shoulders. His hands quietly found purchase on their waist.

The notes drifted through the garbage strewn cavern, accompanied only by the sloshing of their feet in the murky water as they swayed in lazy circles. Blue magic pooled around their feet, trailing, climbing the piano in bright strains, glowing brighter as they pressed their lips to his teeth. 

“You know we have to move on, right?” they whispered kindly, face pressed into his sweatshirt, slotted like it belonged there, under his head.

He nodded, pulling them close as he could.

\------

xii. Sans

They liked the piano.

He _ knew _ they would. 

They ran when they saw it, ran straight to it, making a choked sort of sound and pressing down hard on the keys, all eagerness and clearly out of practice.

He watched from what might be called the shore, just at the edge of the sludge. Slowly, they found a rhythm and a pattern, and senseless clamor became a sort of hymn. 

He stared, transfixed, as they poured their heart and soul out into the keys beneath their fingers. 

It was  _ breathtaking,  _ even with the occasional missed notes, even with the repetitious melody.

Heh.  _ Repetitious. _ Emboldened by his success, a mischievous glint took over his eye. He strode until he was just behind them before quietly pressing up against them, and putting his hands over theirs, getting a feel for their song. Slowly, he concentrated, breathing in and out until he felt a spark and saw a glow begin. Grinning, he started to let it swell, until he could will it into the melody.

The piano began to play itself- there was part one, accomplished.

He stopped their hands, and slowly, deliberately spun them, so they were face to face. 

He could not tell them he loved them, but he could give them a piano, and by the looks of their eyes that was enough. 

Then their hands were on his shoulders and he found his own fingers wrapped delicately around her waist, and there was nothing but the  _ music _ and  _ them. _

“You know we have to move on, right? ” He heard them whisper.


	3. Hotland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frisk and Sans journey through Hotland, facing more danger and approaching the end of their journey together...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is some smut in this chapter okay i swear i didn't mean to write it it just happened

xii. Frisk

The journey into Hotland was uneventful; they knew Waterfall well, having circled through it completely at least twice in their months of procrastination.

It was nice to walk in tandem, calm and quiet and sweet, hand in hand.

Waterfall was nice to walk through. 

Hotland was hot.

They had expected that, but it was still brutal, especially since they had gotten rather used to the temperateness of Waterfall. The heat itself was enough to drive anyone mad, searing and pounding and inescapable, and that was not even to mention the humidity. 

Frisk pulled their sweater over their head, revealing a stained white tank top and their collar bone. They smirked as they caught San’s gaze lingering, and tied the well worn sweater around their waist.

“See somethin’ you like?” they crooned, and he cleared his throat before removing his own sweatshirt and copying their movements, tying it around his waist.

“Maybe.” He replied, winking, and shooting finger guns at them.

They didn’t get far into Hotland before it was time to set up for the night. The day had been long and the weather was uncomfortable. When they hit the sentry station, Frisk was happy to find Sans curled up next to them, sweaters and sweatshirts abandoned to the shelf. 

Laying on their side with about a foot between them, they quietly admired him between labored breaths. His eyes were closed, and he radiated a soft sort of absentminded blue. Without even thinking, they reached their hand out and caressed his cheek. He was ice cold to the touch, and they breathed a quiet moan at the sensation. He smirked, and slowly opened his eyes, looking at them intensely.

“Feel good?” he asked, voice all gravel.

They nodded, blushing, eyes wide. In one quick motion, he slipped his hand around their waist, turning them over and pulling them flush against him, spooning them. Even through the layers of clothing separating them, the physical cold of his bones and the allure of his magic felt incredible. It was both a reprieve and an invitation of sorts.

Emboldened, Frisk gingerly took his hand and placed it under their shirt, guiding it upward to their breasts. Sans understood, slipping his other hand under their shirt, taking a breast in each of his hands. Groaning, they let themself slip into the peace and pleasure of his presence. His fingers slowly started playing softly with their nipples, pinching and squeezing experimentally. Frisk found themself coming apart in his hands. 

He chuckled lightly at their keening at his ministrations, pulling one hand down to ruck the hem of their shirt up.

“Sans, no, s-someone could see,” they protested weakly, but he said nothing, only snapping his fingers. With a loud crack, there was a flash of blue that filled each empty window pane, leaving in its wake a strange sort of foggy atmosphere. 

“Not anymore,” he said simply, sitting up. They followed him frantically and instinctively, straddling him. Matching their intensity, he pulled their shirt off with ferocity, leaning down and taking their left breast into his mouth. The icy wetness of his tongue lapping at their nipple was electrifying, and they couldn’t help but grind down onto him, desperately seeking friction. 

He let go of their nipple with a satisfying pop, and they immediately cradled his head in their hands, their lips meeting his teeth with unspoken passion as they slid their hands under his shirt, breaking the kiss only to pull it over his head.

Pressing their breasts bare against his ribcage was dizzying; the pleasure of the buzz of his magic combined with the soothing cold of his bones was eliciting sounds from them they hadn’t even known they could make. 

No words passed between them, as they quietly shucked their jeans and urgently hooked their fingers into the waistband of his shorts. There was one quiet moment with his forehead pressed against theirs like a cold compress, which acted as the question and the answer.

He stood up, pulling them with him and spinning them around. The open air of the top half of the sentry station was surrounded by four panes of the strange fog he had summoned earlier. Frisk could see out relatively clearly, could see the guards on their nightly patrol, but understood that they could not be seen. 

They had only a split second for this realization before they were being bent over the front of the sentry station and pressed hard up against the fog, which stopped them abruptly and held their weight as if it were some sort of wall. It was cold and pulsing with his magic. Behind them they felt his weight, held their breath as he lined himself up with them.

The stretch of his cock was still as unfamiliar as the first time, in his bedroom, but it somehow felt even more incredible than it had then. It was almost too big for them to take, and as he pushed further and further inside of them, their moans grew louder and louder.

He fucked them hard and raw and guttural. With each stroke, his magic grew stronger and brighter, until Frisk was practically engulfed in the pulsing chill of it. They came over and over on his cock, panting and writhing, but he continued thrusting, biting their shoulder until he came as well, flooding them with a coldness they had never felt before. 

After it was done, he picked them up in his arms, and they did him the favor of pretending he wasn't on the verge of tears, kissing him softly as they fell asleep, a bundle of limbs and bones.

\-----

xiii. Sans 

He didn’t let himself think about whatever was going on between them anymore, just did what felt right. Most of the time, it was much better. Occasionally, he found himself so overwhelmed and guilty and confused he nearly cried. Instead, he pulled them closer and pressed kisses down the column of their neck. 

Hotland was too hot for his taste, and brought back bad memories. No reason to linger anywhere here too long. 

Unfortunately, while Waterfall had been mostly quiet and peaceful, especially with Undyne busy with Pap, Hotland seemed full of adversaries at every turn. What’s worse, Frisk seemed dead-set against any fighting. At first, it was fine; they hug a delusional lava-monster, it was fine. 

But things didn’t stay low-stakes for long, because why would they, when has anything in his life ever been easy. It started with a couple of Pyropes. Cocky bastards, Frisk got scorched, placating them. It was all he could do not to intervene, blast those assholes out of the way. It wasn’t really like him, but the need to help Frisk, to protect them was burgeoning, growing exponentially. It was like he’d been hypnotized, like he’d been baptized in them.

It was like he was loving them. 

Afterwards he cleaned their burns in silence, fed them Nice-Cream.

It had been easy to make puns at the beginning, to toss casual remarks back and forth, to teeter on the edge of flirting. Now, there was so much looming ahead, so much to worry about behind, and so much growing between them. He couldn’t find any words to explain the feeling, and any other words felt cheap.

At night he held them close, never wandering anymore. He slept more and more. 

He didn’t dream of Gaster, despite being altogether too close for comfort to his childhood home. Instead, he dreamt of Frisk. 

At night, in his slumber, the two of them lived in a valley full of sunlight. A yellow cottage stood in the center of a field of overgrowth and trees; birds flit gaily from tree branch to tree branch, whistling bittersweet melodies. There was a big white porch-swing, and a rocking chair.

They changed, in his dreams. Some nights they were sultry, waiting for him, nearly naked, in some little white slip on the porch, tempting him inside and dropping to their knees in front of him as soon as the door closed. Other nights, he found them inside, filling jars with berries and sugar, humming and nodding quietly at him. He’d sit down beside them, watch them work. In the sunlight streaming through the windows, they were the most beautiful creature he had ever seen. Occasionally, they waited for him in the rocking chair, swollen with a child he knew instinctively was his. They rose with great difficulty to greet him, kissing him, guiding his hand to rest on their belly.

It was terribly domestic. He always woke up holding them tightly. 

It went on like this for three tense weeks. They pressed forward, Frisk wheedling their way out of conflict, him restraining himself and holding them close and tender at night. Frisk made no mention of this quiet shift of dynamic, and he was grateful. Instead, they kissed him sweetly before they fell asleep, and slotted their head under his. 

\-----

xiii. Frisk

The guards came out of nowhere, caught them by surprise. They were a foreboding pair, in heavy, dark black armour, carrying large, unwieldy swords. Sans had been running the tips of his fingers through their hair, his latest form of communicating without communicating. The two of them had been hunkered down in the shadow of some large building or another, recuperating in an alley partially obstructed by an old Nice-Cream cart. 

Suddenly, they were cornered. Frisk felt the color drain out of their face, pressing themself up against the wall, opening their mouth to begin searching for a way out of this when the guard on the left, the stockier of the two, swung his sword at Sans. Frisk didn’t hear themself scream, but knew distantly they must have. 

Sans, for his part, dodged, but the guard continued swinging, and was far too close for comfort. His companion seemed cruelly bemused. Looming over Frisk, unsheathing his weapon, he chuckled to himself. 

“You know, I’d be worried about your little boyfriend. See, my colleague’s old patrol partner died facing the last human who fell down here. That little devil dusted him with one hit. He’s been a little...unstable, since then. Fiercest human-hunter I know. Undyne notwithstanding, that is. You’re lucky she’s got her hands full with that brain dead skeleton, or you’d be long dead by now.” 

Frisk struggled to focus, grasping at straws, sliding down the wall, watching as with every swing the other guard got closer and closer to hitting Sans. He was still alive, they needed to keep him alive. Desperate, barely thinking, they cupped their hands and whispered fiercely “I am full of determination!”

And there it was, a swirling yellow bundle in their hands, pulsing and shining. Taking a risk, they slid it as far away from them as they could, praying it would stick when it hit the abandoned Nice Cream cart. 

The last things they saw before a sword split them in two was the glinting light take root and Sans.

After a moment of blackness, they opened their eyes, half expecting to find themself back at the Ruins. There was no time to process the joy they felt to find they were, instead, crouched behind a Nice-Cream cart in the middle of a brawl.

Having gone so long without resets, they had forgotten how viscerally painful death was. Every part of them was throbbing, but there was no time to even consider it. Sans needed them. Poking their head above the cart, they saw one knight, trying to puzzle out where they had gone, and another right on San’s tail. 

Thinking quicking, they toggled the cart to life, jumping on as it careened down the alley. Grabbing Sans by the sweatshirt, they flipped him up into the cart as well. They steered as best they could, making sharp turns and putting as much distance between them and the guards as possible before ditching the cart to jettison itself. 

“Close one,” he said gruffly, “Quick thinking with that Nice-Cream cart.”

“Well,” they replied, laughing, delirious, in disbelief that they’re  _ here,  _ Sans was  _ alive, _ “I’ve always been a pretty  _ cool  _ thinker.” 

They could read on his face that he wasn’t expecting the pun. His eyebrows were quirked, his mouth formed a small, real smile. 

“Not one to  _ melt _ under pressure, I see,” he returned, and it felt like coming home.

It wasn’t till hours later, when they were curled around one another on the floor of a sentry station, that he quietly asked the question.

“How did you get over to that cart?”

Frisk hesitated for a moment, but couldn’t find any reason to lie. Sans held them, fast and firm, as they explained the visit months-prior from the strange bloodied child, listened as detailed their attempts to save, finally realised in the heat of battle.

“You have to really mean it,” they explained, “You have to be really desperate for it.”

“And you weren’t before?” he asked.

“Not as desperate as I was to keep you alive.”

\-----

xiv. Sans

He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t disturbed by the kid’s story. It wasn’t exactly a good sign, that they were being visited by some bloodied child asking them for power and giving them hints, especially hints related to determination. But he was too grateful to let it worry him that night; he was alive, Frisk was okay, the timeline hadn’t reset. Maybe there was something very strange and bad going on, but for now, he held them close, pressed his face into their hair.

Some of the tension between them had broken when they had joked around earlier. It was nice to laugh again, like they were back sitting on his rotting couch in Snowdin, like Papyrus had just been put to bed. Bittersweet, but nice. 

They both slept heavily that night, weary from the day’s events. Frisk had never really gone into it, but he could tell that dying took a very physical toll on them. He shuddered just thinking about it. The morning air was heavy and wet when he woke, finding them still asleep beside him. Steeling himself, he sat up and considered what to say to them. 

His brow deeply furrowed, he regarded them where they lay. Their sleeping form was so small, so delicate, so beautiful. Their soft brown hair gently framed their flushed face. Their limbs, lithe and little, were all curled up. They sometimes slept like that, balled up real small. He felt a pang in his chest; even asleep, they looked fragile. It had never been his intention to care about them. He had let himself become so entangled, fall so deeply into depths he had sworn off of for years. 

It was dangerous. The truth of that had become clearer and clearer as they had journeyed forward. He used to feel trepidation, it used to scare him so thoroughly that he had no words, that he was speechless. Now, he found the words were welling up in his mouth, threatening to overflow; maybe he could finally say them.

They woke slowly, blinking the light and sleep out of their eyes, sitting up to look at him where he stood over them. They smiled up at him, still so pure and sweet despite everything. He cleared his throat, shaking himself a little, and closed his eyes.

“I love you, Frisk,” he said, voice wavering with emotion, “I love you and I have loved you for a long time. This thing we’re doing it’s- it’s terrifying. I’m worried about Papyrus, I’m worried about you, I’m worried about this demon visiting you, and I’m worried about-about what we’re going to do when we get to the end. I can’t lose you Frisk. I know I’m a fool, I know I’m a selfish bastard, but I’d so much rather live a thousand lives trapped down here with you than to get out of here with- with you dying. I need you, I love you, I want to be with you for the rest of my life, I want to- God. Frisk.”

He opened his eyes to see them smiling, tears slipping down their cheeks. “I love you too, Sans,” they said, voice like sunshine, smile like rainfall.

He cleared his throat. “So here’s what we’re gonna do. If that thing comes back and tries to talk to you again, you’re gonna tell me right away. We’re gonna move fast, get to the barrier as quickly as we can, and figure things out better when we get there. You’re gonna do another one of those save things, so we have somewhere safe to come back to instead of the middle of that fight.”

“I don’t know if I can,” they said with uncertainty, sitting up and drawing their knees into their chest. He crouched down in front of them, so his face was level with their own.

“I know you can, Frisk. I believe in you,” he said quietly, looking deep in their eyes. Frisk didn’t even have to say the words out loud; between them suddenly floated a yellow and pulsing star. 

\-----

xiv. Frisk

After he told them he loved them, there was a lightness between them, in spite of the fact that things were more and more harrowing by the day. They barely eeked past Muffet; it was a good thing they still had a spider donut from the Ruins. They never seemed to go far between confrontations, and they couldn’t shake the feeling that something was following them.

But all of that fell aside when he took their hand. 

They travelled closer and closer to the heart of Hotland, to the CORE. The thrumming of the heat and the whirring of the machinery was unnerving and unpleasant, but each night he bundled them into the peaceful, cool tranquility of his arms, and they were okay. 

It was a hot Friday evening when the robot finally revealed himself from the shadows. Frisk and Sans had been approaching the next sentry station, readying to rest for the night, when the boxy robot materialized. They heard Sans swear and mutter darkly, ”Mettaton.”

“Correct, darling! Now, I’m sure our viewers are just  _ itching _ to find out what you, Sans the skeleton, widely renowned scientist and human-hunter, son of the disgraced W.D. Gaster, is doing in the company of a human?”

“I’m in his custody!” Frisk shouted stubbornly as Sans tried and failed to keep them behind him.

“Oh  _ realllyyyy _ ?” asked the robot, rolling it’s r somehow, “Then do you care to explain this?” 

Nothing happened.

“A clip of the two of you kissing is playing for the viewers at home,” he explained, “Better have your story ready, it should be over right abouuut...now!”

“We don’t have time for this, pal,” Sans intoned in a dangerous voice.

“Oh? But you have time for that?” the robot teased, and Frisk tensed up. 

Sans struck first. 

They had never seen him angry in this way. His left eye socket was suddenly alight with his blue magic. The air seemed to tremble with his sheer power. Self-conscious and afraid, they stood back to back with him, holding the burnt frying pan they’d found but never wanted to use, gripping it tightly. Mettaton laughed, a high-pitched, dramatic sound.

“Ohhhh, what’s  _ this? _ A battle for love? How very cinematic!”

It was a spectacular fight, both in its flair and in its violence.

Mettaton sent blow after blow, knocking them down with bombs and disco-balls and all manner of strange and sensational attacks. 

“Don’t kill him!! Please,” Frisk cried, and Sans begrudgingly obliged, fending off the attacks while Frisk tried to come up with a way out.

But Mettaton was strong, and Frisk and Sans were both barely holding it together when he suddenly declared his viewership had skyrocketed and disappeared as quickly as he had come. They looked at one another, both bloodied and panting. 

“Hey kid,” Sans said gruffly, watching them start to panic, “What’s a robot’s favorite type of music?” 

“What?” they asked, catching their breath, finding solid ground in the resoluteness of his smile.

“Heavy metal.” 

\-----

xv. Sans

That night, instead of leading them down another alley to another sentry station or hideout, he decided they needed something different. Maybe it was in the way they were moving, like every step hurt, or the way they seemed thinner every time he looked at them, or the way the bags under their eyes got heavier and heavier with every waking moment, but something possessed him to take them up the stairs to the MTT Resort.

It was a risky move, he knew that. Who knows who had seen Mettaton’s broadcast, who was looking for them. But the fact remained that they were both exhausted and hungry, and that Frisk deserved a moment of peace and happiness.

Entering the resort, he led them straight to the swanky restaurant attached to the hotel. Winking at the monster in charge of reservations, he sauntered over to his usual table, Frisk trailing timid and nervous behind him. It had been a while since either of them had had a meal that wasn’t Junk Food or Nice Cream or some other little scrounged or saved thing.

At the idea of fresh ketchup, he almost let out a quiet moan. Instead, he pulled out their chair for them, and gestured for them to sit down.

“So, our journey’s almost over, huh,” he said softly, looking down at the menu, not really reading anything. They nodded, biting their lip.

“Ya know, sometimes, ‘specially at night, I start thinking. Down here we have food, drink, friends...is what we have to do really worth it? But I know it’s not for us. It’s not about us. Right, kid? It’s about everyone else. It’s about freedom,” he continued. Frisk nodded again, looking up and catching his eye.

“I think about it, I think about Pap. I’d like...I’d like for him to see the Sun, someday.”

“What about you?” Frisk asked, voice hushed.

“Me? What do I need the Sun for? I’ve got you, don’t I?”

They blushed before clearing their throat.

“Why’d you decide to help me?” they asked, nervous and shy.

“Well, there’s the little matter of falling in love with ya, that certainly was part of it. And you were kind to Pap, and you didn’t ever act like you wanted to hurt anybody, and you were. Hell, kid, who am I kidding? I was rootin’ for ya from the very beginning.” 

They beamed at him.

“You weren’t the first kid Tori lost. I’m ashamed to say it, but in the beginning, the only thing keeping me from killing them on sight was a promise I made her. None of them cared the way you did; most of them were vicious, and reset the timeline over and over and. I don’t really like to talk about it, to be honest. But you, you were different from the moment I laid eyes on you. I knew you were special.”

Frisk nodded, looking up at him with no judgement in their eyes, only love and acceptance.

Finally, after a nice warm meal, they trekked down the hall to their hotel room. When the door closed behind them, they stood looking at one another for a long time. Frisk gently took hold of Sans’s sweatshirt at the lapels, helping him shrug it off his shoulders. Mirroring their motions, he took the bottom of their tank-top in his hands, pulling it up over their head. 

Bit by bit, they undressed one another in relative silence. When they were both completely bare, he hefted them into his arms, crossing to the bed, laying them down and taking his place next to them, just as he had back in Snowdin.

“If you were a vegetable, do you know what vegetable you’d be?” they asked him slyly.

“What vegetable, kid?” he replied, propping himself up on one arm and gazing lovingly at them. 

“A cute-cumber.”

He laughed, really laughed. Maybe everything was gonna be okay.

“Oh yeah? Well, you know what kinda fruit you’d be?”

“What kind?” they asked.

“A grape. Cause- heh- cause I’m grape-ful to have you.”

“Guess that means we make a perfect  _ pear, _ ” they replied.

Pulling them close, kissing them through giggles, Sans knew he was a very lucky guy.

\-----

xv. Frisk

They woke up in the early morning, stretching out on the plush white bed. The softness of the bedding was unfamiliar but welcoming, and they hummed as they sat up slowly. Sans was still asleep, dozing softly. It wasn’t often they saw him like this, vulnerable. They smiled, running their fingers along the curve of his skull. 

He was incredibly handsome, intelligent, and brave, and they were astonished he chose to spend his time with them, that he would want to spend his life with them. He could probably have had anyone. They’d never understand why he chose them, chose to suffer along side them, to face this with them.

They felt their smile falter on their face. The task ahead would be difficult. It seemed near impossible. What waited for them at the end? Almost certainly their death, and yet they continued forward, resolute, determined. Why?

_ It’s the right thing to do,  _ they thought to themself, but as Sans let out a little snore, they felt the tug of a more selfish reason within them.

Sure, they were doing this because it was the right thing, but more than that, they were doing it because they were hopeful. Hopeful for their future, hopeful for the future of their love. Maybe that made them a fool, maybe it made them selfish, but it was the truth.

They thought of the bloodied, scarred girl waiting for them in the realm between life and death. What was her prerogative? She wanted power, certainly, and she wasn’t to be trusted. Why wouldn’t she leave Frisk alone? Even in the sweltering heat of Hotland, even in the cold embrace of their lover, they could feel her presence. She was like a shadow, like an undertow. 

It frightened Frisk.

Humming, trying to forget the impossibility of what they had to do and the unsettling little girl who seemed hell-bent on interfering, Frisk got up and fumbled with the coffee pot in the kitchenette.

There was something very comforting about hotels. Frisk never had a proper home. In other people’s homes, they always felt a touch uncomfortable and confused. Hotels, on the other hand, were impermanent, impersonal, and comfortable. 

Pouring themself a cup and gingerly sitting down on the couch across from the bed, they let themself indulge in the thought of what could be, if they survived, if Sans survived, if he still wanted them when all was said and done.

It could look something like this, they supposed; a morning cup of coffee, a good night’s sleep. But then, it wouldn’t be like this at all. This was a hotel, and with Sans they would have. Well.

A home.

What would a home with Sans look like? A nice little house. A spare bedroom for Papyrus. A piano, a trombone. A big, comfy couch and a bigger, comfier bed. 

Could they have kids?

Just the thought of it made Frisk blush and sink further into the couch cushions. They’d cross that bridge when they came to it.

They’d like to be somewhere with lots of green and sunlight, plenty of open fresh air to run and jump and roll around. They bit the inside of their cheek, imagining him in the sunlight. He’d like to be out in the country, they thought, because there at night you could see the most stars. 

They thought of him boxing up his telescope to bring topside.

That was why they were really doing this, they supposed. He deserved it; to see the Sun, and the stars, and the moon. To stand on the shore of a beach, to feel the real breeze on his face. He deserved freedom, and they wanted nothing more than to give it to him, even if the price was their life. 

In the meantime, they savored a final moment of calm and peace, watching his sleeping form rise and fall with each breath he took. 

\-----

xvi. Sans

There were two reasons he hated the CORE.

Firstly, it was a goddamn nightmare to navigate. Waterfall was confusing, with its twists and turns and poor lighting, and the rest of Hotland was disgustingly hot and uncomfortable, but the CORE took the cake when it came to places it sucked to walk through. The rooms switched places every ten seconds, the puzzles were pedantic but they were everywhere, and it was no less hot than the rest of Hotland.

Secondly, he hated it because it reminded him of Gaster. It made perfect sense that it would, of course. The CORE was Gaster’s creation, after all. It had his father’s cruelty and logic written all over it.

He remembered the last time he’d walked through the CORE. It had been the day he and Papyrus had gotten away. 

“ _ Where are we going, Sans? _ ”  _ Papyrus looked up at him in confusion, still so small, so young to be dealing with such terrible things. He was shaking, barely able to stand upright. Sans caught him as he fell, feeling anger and fear well up inside of him. _

_ Sans gripped his brother as tightly as he dared, carrying him out of their apartment in the heart of the CORE, with just a knapsack on his back. He was weak; it had been days since either of them had been allowed anything to eat.  _

_ They weren’t to touch food while Gaster was out, or they’d risk being beaten, and Gaster hadn’t been home in nearly a week. The heat of the machines whirring and the humidity of the air made him dizzy.  _

_ “Someplace cold, Pap. How does that sound?” _

How many years had it been? He couldn’t remember. Papyrus was much taller now. Maybe he would’ve been tall too, if anyone had cared about him as a kid. If he’d gotten enough to eat. But Gaster had been too busy building this cursed place to pay him any mind. 

Gaster had been working on something else by the time he and Pap had escaped. He had an assistant, a young, yellow lizard girl, not much older than himself. 

She’d been confident and light-hearted, the first time he’d met her.

That didn’t last long, not with Gaster around. 

Whatever he’d been working on with her must have been very important and very sinister; he’d been working longer and longer hours, leaving Sans and Papyrus alone for longer and longer stretches of time, punishing them harshly when he returned if he deemed anything to be out of place.

Sans hated the CORE, hated how it twisted and turned, hated how his father built it around them, hated having to return to it.

“Penny for your thoughts?” Frisk asked, taking his hand. He jumped a little; he supposed he’d been lost in thought. He turned to look at them; their shaggy brown hair framed their curious green eyes. They were beautiful.

It was a terrible thing, to see someone so beautiful here.

“I hate this place,” he replied honestly before he could stop himself. 

Frisk nodded, understanding that it wasn’t the moment to pry.

He loved them for that; they knew when to push him, and when to leave him be. He could tell they knew what it was like, to have parts of your life you’d rather keep buried. It was comforting to be like that, two people harboring secrets next to one another. Everything seemed less heavy and dark around them.

He loved them for many reasons, he thought, watching them gaze around in awe. It was like Frisk to find beauty even here, in the most wretched of places. 

Without thinking too much, he grabbed them round the waist, spun them around and kissed them, just because he could.

\-----

xvi. Frisk

The CORE took forever to get through. 

They hated themself for not being faster and quieter. Watching Sans have to be here was agony. Frisk didn’t know what had happened to him here, but whatever it was, it was really upsetting him. Frisk understood it; some things never leave you, even long after you’ve left them. Too often, these were the tragedies of life. Too often, the joys were fleeting.

They were determined to fill Sans’s life with as much joy as they could for as long as they were alive.

For his part, he was clearly working very hard to set aside whatever was bothering him, but it was obviously something very painful. These days, Frisk spent their nights holding him, coaxing him into an uneasy sleep, praying the next day would be the day they found their way out of this labyrinth of puzzles.

Three or four days in they started getting inundated with attacks. Sans said they were bounty hunters, just in it for the money. Frisk didn’t think this made them any less intimidating or scary.

It seemed to perk Sans up, though. They supposed the mercenaries offered a short-term, accomplishable goal to focus on.

And so they slashed and dodged their way past Knight Knight, and Madjick, narrowly escaping a number of times. It broke their heart that he seemed to get a better night’s sleep bloodied than not, but they understood it.

Pain is a good temporary distraction from pain, but it is no solution.

There were more than a few close calls.

One night, they were up against a Final Froggit and an Astigmatism. Sans wasn’t himself, seemed distracted and disconnected. He laughed humorlessly as he weaved through attacks, ignoring them as they shouted at him to be careful, to stop showboating. 

He didn’t notice the butterflies streaming towards him from behind, or hear their called warning, and so they did the only thing they could. Lunging toward him, they knocked him out of the way, catching two butterflies to the back as they did. They felt blood starting to seep out of the jagged wound in their back.

He looked down at them, horrified. In a flash of blue light, they were back in the corner they had set up for the night in.

Frisk struggled to string words together, the pain was so searing. 

“That’s a real throwback,” they offered, laughing weakly.

“Can’t do it often,” he said grimly, “Takes- takes a lot out of me.”

They tried to get up, but it was a futile effort.

“I’m so sorry,” he said after a pause, “This is all my fault, I should have listened to you.”

“It’s okay,” they insisted, “I’ll be fine.”

And they were, once he bandaged them up and coaxed some Nice Cream into them, and especially once he gingerly wrapped his arms around them.

As they dozed off to sleep, they tried to find the right words to say.

“You don’t have to tell me what happened here, what’s bothering you so much, but I want you to know that whatever it is, you don’t have to face it alone. I’m here for you, for the rest of my life.”

He didn’t respond, but the way he drew them closer to his chest was answer enough.

The next few days were difficult; they encountered foe after foe, enemy after enemy, battle after battle. Despite this, Sans’s spirits seemed better. He joked with them a little more, like old times. 

Frisk joked back, laughing with just a little too much intensity, urgency. It was becoming very clear to them that all of this, their life, their love, was finite. There was a good chance these would be the last few days they’d spend with Sans. There was a good chance these would be the last few days they’d spend alive.

They hoped they could break the barrier and survive, but they knew it was unlikely.

So instead they nurtured other hopes; Sans and Papyrus, free and happy, living under the Sun. They hoped there would be nothing but joy and peace in their lives.

Secretly, they hoped they’d be remembered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look i know it seems bad but i do promise a happy ending once all is said and done!

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading!! I'd love to hear your thoughts in the comments, and I'll be posting the next chapter within a week or so :)


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